


Divinity

by lyricwritesprose



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: ButterOmens, Established Relationship, In fact that's why I posted this in the first place, In the hopes that someone would remix it, M/M, Normally I write stuff that might or might not be asexual depending on your reading, Not this time guys, Possibly someone who is more experienced with NSFW content, Remix and Fics Inspired By are Welcome, Sexual Relationship, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), This is something of a first for me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:54:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23087368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyricwritesprose/pseuds/lyricwritesprose
Summary: Aziraphale can sense love, including being able to taste the love of cooking in his food.  Crowley can sense want, and wishes he knows what Aziraphale is tasting when he tastes love.  Aziraphale has an idea.This story is written for theButterOmens eventon tumblr.  It's similar to a "draw this in your style" chain, but with multimedia.  So, the basic idea is, if you find this interesting, please feel free to remix it or extend it or whatever you want to do with it.Thanks ton0nb1narydemonandacuteangleaziraphalefor coming up with the ButterOmens concept!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 53
Kudos: 312





	Divinity

The Indian takeaway place down in the village wasn't actually that good.

It could have been. Should have been. The family that ran it were dedicated enough. But it was also a struggling business, and Crowley got the feeling that corners had been cut.

Aziraphale liked the place anyway. Aziraphale tasted something in the food that Crowley couldn't detect.

The thing was, Crowley reflected as he picked up their chicken tikki masala, Aziraphale sensed love. He wasn't perfectly accurate—he had taken long enough to sense  _ Crowley's _ love, although neither of them were entirely sure how much that was Heaven making him doubt his own perceptions. During World War II, he had sensed Kleinschmidt's ferocious and perhaps fanatical love for her country, but his senses neglected to tell him  _ which country. _ (Crowley would have turned off the woman's conscious mind and interrogated her before offering to help, but Aziraphale simply didn't think that way. Crowley wasn't sure how Aziraphale had lasted six thousand years around humans without turning into a cynical and suspicious bastard, but he adored him for it.) Aziraphale sensed love.

And when  _ food _ was made with love—not even necessarily love for a person, love of the craft of cooking was enough—Aziraphale could taste it.

Judging by the sounds Aziraphale made when he encountered particularly loved food, Crowley was missing out.

Crowley secured the takeout bag in the Bentley’s boot and got in the car. Really, it was close enough to walk down to the takeout place, but Aziraphale’s food was not allowed to get cold, and besides, he had a certain reputation as That Mad Bastard With That Car to uphold.

Crowley wondered what it would be like to taste love, and regretted that his senses didn’t lend themselves to that. In a way, his talent was more flexible, more useful: he sensed  _ want. _ (Calling it  _ lust _ tended to give people the wrong idea, but there did have to be a power to the desire, something that grabbed on and dug its claws in.) Walk into a royal court, and know who wanted someone else dead; walk into a corporate retreat, and know who wanted someone else ruined. That ability made Crowley powerful, made him dangerous. But it wasn’t love. Many times, it was the thing furthest from.

He had talked about it with Aziraphale recently, a slightly tipsy conversation that ranged all the way from the Roman Empire to the Aztecs and their chocolate before finally settling on the topic of love in food. “There should be a way,” Aziraphale had said at the time, “to approximate the experience with the senses you have. If someone  _ wants _ something while cooking—”

“It usually isn’t powerful enough to qualify,” Crowley told him. “And if it is, it usually isn’t pleasant. I remember biting into a spanakopita that was nothing but the cook wanting not to be having a bad pain day.”

“But you  _ could _ taste it.”

“Wished I couldn’t,” Crowley said. “Where are you going with this, angel?”

“Nowhere,” Aziraphale had said. “Nowhere at all.”

Now, driving home in the deepening dusk, Crowley told himself that it didn’t matter. Aziraphale could experience something that was forever shut to Crowley, but it was all right. It was fine. They didn’t  _ have _ to share everything.

He pulled up in the cottage driveway. Got the food and went into the cottage, hissing menacingly at the climbing roses as he went past. All the plants around here were getting deeply spoiled. Aziraphale had Theories about growing plants without emotionally brutalizing them, but Crowley wasn’t entirely on board yet—he knew he probably  _ would _ be, eventually, because it seemed to be something that Aziraphale wanted, but sometimes he found himself wound tight with demonic tension and the easiest and safest place to let it out was the plants. Crowley chose not to examine why he might be feeling tense tonight. He opened the door, called out, “I’m here,” and made his way back to the kitchen.

Aziraphale emerged from the kitchen, spoon in hand. Aziraphale was wearing a red checkered apron, because Aziraphale had no fashion sense, but he did have a distinct feeling that red checkered aprons were What People Wore when they were cooking.

Aziraphale had been cooking? Aziraphale didn’t usually cook. He had been learning, but he usually left it to Crowley. “What’s the occasion?” Crowley asked.

“No occasion!” It came out, perhaps, a little more high-pitched than usual. “No occasion. I found a recipe I wanted to try, a sort of sweet, only I’m afraid I may have messed it up rather. They’re supposed to be a lot more fluffy.”

Crowley followed Aziraphale to the kitchen, putting down the takeaway food on the kitchen table and studying the things on the baking sheet. Pure white, round things.

“It’s supposed to be divinity,” Aziraphale said, clasping his hands (complete with spoon) behind his back. “With nuts.”

Crowley couldn’t help but smile. “You’re cooking sweets called divinity?”

“Well, they’re very good. At least, they are when they’re made properly. I’ve had them before.”

“Oh, I’m not doubting you. I just think it’s a little ironic. A demon eating something called divinity.”

Aziraphale gave him the Hopeful Eyes. “You will try them, then? Even though they didn’t come out entirely right?”

“‘Course I will.” He really didn’t have to do that with his eyes, even. Crowley would never  _ admit _ to a sweet tooth, but he appreciated the turn that Aziraphale’s cooking ambitions had taken nonetheless: pastries and tarts and tortes, and now sweets. He swept one of the white things off the baking sheet and took a cautious nibble.

And was hit by a hurricane-force wave of  _ want. _

Specifically, want for Crowley. For his hands. His mouth—especially his mouth. Body parts and pressing closeness and more, and more, a spillover of snapshots with himself at the center of them, kissing and nibbling and wearing significantly less than he was at the moment.

This time, it was  _ entirely _ appropriate to call it a talent for reading lust.

Crowley didn’t know that he was going to make such a shocked, longing,  _ needy _ sound until he heard himself making it. With the distant part of his brain that wasn’t overwhelmed by the  _ want, _ he thought of Aziraphale making small noises at a particularly delicious bite of food, and thought,  _ oh. So this is what it’s like. _

He looked at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale was blushing. Two high spots of color on his cheeks. But his eyes also had a glint to them, a familiar glint.

Crowley surged towards him and pushed him backwards against the kitchen counter. “Sneaky bastard,” he whispered in Aziraphale’s ear.

Aziraphale’s arms went around him, a sign that he took it for the endearment it was. “I assume this means you could taste it.”

“Taste it—” Aziraphale really did wear a ridiculous amount of clothes. “Isn’t strong enough. I don’t think the humans make words strong enough.”

“Dearest—”

“Mm. Less talking. More tasting.”

“Dearest,” Aziraphale said again.

“You made it very clear that you  _ want _ something from me.” Crowley nibbled his way down Aziraphale’s neck. “And you know I always give you what you want.”

Which was when Aziraphale said one of the few things that could have made Crowley let him go at that instant. “Crowley.  _ There’s another batch on the stove.” _

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Divinity](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23098954) by [Cassandraic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cassandraic/pseuds/Cassandraic)




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